


This Or That, But Always Mine

by clotpolesonly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aromantic Awareness Week, Aromantic Stiles Stilinski, Assumptions, Communication, Fluff, M/M, Platonic Cuddling, Queerplatonic Relationships, amatonormativity, slight romance-repulsion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 15:22:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17852120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clotpolesonly/pseuds/clotpolesonly
Summary: He and Derek were not a thing.Or, okay, maybe theywerekind of a thing, in a way.But they were definitely notthat kindof thing.Stiles just wished everyone else could understand that.





	This Or That, But Always Mine

**Author's Note:**

> my contribution to arospec awareness week!! i've really been berating myself for not writing much aro rep, especially cuz i keep posting ace rep (which is very near and dear to my heart, i still have more ideas there XD, i just wanna rep my other half too) and i swear i NEVER see any qp anything in fic
> 
> so i had to write it myself, here's a quick little thing with me projecting my desire for low-pressure, intimate-but-not-like-that cuddles

“Are you and Derek a thing?”

Stiles took his eyes off the road long enough to throw Scott a sidelong look. “What? No.”

“You sure?” Scott pushed. “You can tell me, if you are. I promise I won’t mind. Derek’s a pretty cool guy, even if he is a little old. I’d be totally cool with it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“First of all, he’s not old, Scott. He’s like twenty-four,” Stiles said with a snort. “Second of all, I’m not worried about anything because we’re not a thing, so it’s a moot point anyway. Why would you ask that?”

Even without turning to look, he could practically _feel_ the funny look Scott was giving him. “Dude, you were, like…practically in his lap all night long.”

“So?”

“So you both looked pretty cozy like that.”

“The couch is small.”

Scott sighed and, apparently giving up on his interrogation, refocused his attention out the window.

Stiles flipped on his turn signal and said, “Scott, there’s nothing going on with me and Derek. Okay? I swear, we are not a thing. On my honor.”

Scott studied him through narrowed eyes for the entire time it took Stiles to drive down the last street, turn into the driveway of the McCall house, and throw the jeep in park. Then he gave in to a grin. “You say that as if you _have_ any honor.”

He made a break for the front door before Stiles could whack him upside the head, so Stiles was reduced to yelling out the window: “I take offense to that, asshole!”

Scott just waved back, unrepentant, and disappeared inside. Stiles shook his head as he backed out of the driveway, but he was chuckling anyway. Teasing was always a good sign coming from Scott. It meant the subject was dropped, which was good, because there was nothing to talk about.

He and Derek weren’t a thing.

 

 

* * *

  

 

“So when are you bringing Derek over for Sunday dinner?”

Stiles almost dropped his toast. Well, he almost missed _catching_ his toast as it popped up, and then was too taken aback by his dad’s question to put it _down_ quickly enough to avoid burning his fingers.

“Ow, ow, ow, _hot—_ Dad, why would I do that?””

His dad sipped at his coffee, leaning back against the kitchen table. “Well, that’s what people usually do with their boyfriends,” he said, attempting casual.

Stiles stared at him, toast forgotten. “Derek’s not my boyfriend.”

“Son, I know I haven’t been the best I could’ve been about all this…sexuality…stuff,” his dad admitted—and it _was_ a big admission from him, actually, Stiles would be proud of the progress here if he wasn’t so confused. “But you don’t have to hide anything from me.”

“No, dad, I’m not— Derek’s not my boyfriend! I’m not doing anything with Derek.”

His dad frowned. “You’re sure spending a lot of time at Derek’s.”

“I spend a lot of time at Scott’s too,” Stiles pointed out.

“Yeah, but Scott’s your friend.”

“And Derek isn’t?”

“Is he?”

Stiles rolled his eyes expansively. “Yes, Derek is my friend. Whom I spend time with. Because we’re _friends._ ”

His dad made a face. “I don’t know, kid. You don’t cuddle up to Scott or Isaac or even Lydia like you do to Derek.”

Stiles groaned. “God, have you been conferencing with Scott or something? What is up with you people?”

“We just want to know what’s going on in your life.”

His dad’s voice was gentle enough to take the indignant wind right out of Stiles’ sails. The lines around his eyes spoke of all the months spent watching Stiles’ weird behavior, listening to his obvious lies, wondering what the hell he was missing and why his son had pulled so far away from him. He was in the know now, had been for a while, but that didn’t keep him from worrying. That was, as he often said, his prerogative as a father.

“Dad, nothing’s going on,” Stiles said, as plainly as he could. “Yeah, we’re close, but I’m not hiding anything else or being coy about it. I promise you, we’re just…not like that. Okay?”

His dad studied him for a long minute, just like Scott had in the car, scrutinizing him for any hint of a bluff or a misdirect. He must not find anything—probably as there wasn’t any such thing to find—because he nodded and deposited his empty mug on the table behind him. Halfway to the door, he paused with another frown.

“Does that mean we _don’t_ get to have Derek over for dinner?”

“Oh my god.” Stiles stuffed a piece of toast in his mouth. “If you want Derek over for dinner, ask him yourself. I’m out of here.”

He did not tell his dad that he _was_ actually on his way over to Derek’s place, or that he wouldn’t mind having dinner with Derek on Sundays. Because that would only serve to convince him that they _were_ a thing when they weren’t.

He and Derek really, honestly, were not a thing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you and Derek coming to my party?”

Stiles bit down on a vehement curse and chose to face-plant into his textbook instead. By the time he picked his head back up, Lydia was still watching him with an expectant eyebrow raised, only now she looked a little exasperated too.

“Why do you assume we’re coming together?” he demanded. “Or that I would even know if Derek is coming at all? Why would I know that?”

“ _Do_ you know that?”

Stiles did know that, and maybe he and Derek had talked about hanging out beforehand and then carpooling to Lydia’s birthday party so they didn’t both have to drive, but that was completely beside the point.

Lydia rolled her eyes. “You two are always together nowadays,” she said, stowing her notebook back in her voluminous purse and giving him a knowing smirk. Or, Stiles should call it, a _mistaken_ smirk. “Forgive me for assuming the trend would continue.”

“We’re not dating,” Stiles offered up helplessly.

Lydia swung her purse over her shoulder, flipped her hair, and said, “You’re sort of dating. Now are you two coming to my party or not?”

Stiles rubbed at his forehead and sighed with _feeling._ “Yes. Yes, we are coming.”

Lydia gave him a bright smile, which he couldn’t bring himself to return, and strode off with high heels tapping furiously. Stiles stayed where he was, even as the bell rang to signal the end of his study period, fighting against the tired, uncomfortable feeling growing in his gut.

He and Derek were not a thing.

Or, okay, maybe they were kind of a thing, in a way.

But they were definitely not _that kind_ of thing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles threw his backpack on the floor as soon as the loft’s heavy metal door clanged shut behind him. Derek barely glanced up from his book; he was used to Stiles coming and going as he pleased by now. He had a key, after all. Derek had given him a key to his place months ago. He hadn’t made a big deal out of it, just like he didn’t when Stiles threw himself down on the couch beside him and promptly tipped over to insert his head into Derek’s lap. He just shifted his book to his other hand and settled the first one on Stiles’ chest instead.

“You okay?” he asked. “You smell upset.”

Stiles stared blankly up at the underside of Derek’s book. It was in Spanish. The last one had been French. “I’m fine.”

Derek’s eyes flicked down for a second, assessing. Then they returned to his reading. He patted Stiles’ chest and said, “Okay.”

Some of the tension thrumming through Stiles dissipated, his body relaxing into the familiar embrace of Derek’s couch. He loved that Derek didn’t push. Derek was a hell of a listener, and he always made it clear that Stiles was more than welcome to confide in him about anything at any time. But he never badgered Stiles to spill his guts if he didn’t want to like his dad occasionally did, or accidentally guilt him with that pitiful “I just want to help” face that Scott got sometimes.

Not that Stiles resented either of them for that. He really didn't. He knew they cared and were just trying to help and be there for him and whatnot. There was just something about Derek’s quiet, steady presence that was…easier. Stiles could _breathe_ easier around Derek, and being here in the echoey openness of the loft, listening to the soundtrack of Derek’s page flips, settled some of the uneasy feeling he couldn’t seem to shake.

Not all of it, though. Because he loved this. But he didn’t _love Derek._ At least, not the way Lydia’s smirk had implied, or his dad’s dinner invitation, or Scott’s unprompted blessing for their nonexistent relationship. Even the bagging lady at the grocery store had winked at him when he and Derek had gone together last week so Stiles could replenish the loft’s stock of poptarts that he had personally decimated. As if grocery shopping had somehow become date night without Stiles knowing.

Derek’s book landed on the coffee table with a thump. “You’re only getting more and more upset.”

Groaning, Stiles levered himself into an upright position again, rubbing at his face just in case that would make the squirmy feeling go away. It did not, but Derek raising an arm to let Stiles collapse against his side helped a bit. Because Derek was warm and easy and safe and always there for him, and why wasn’t that enough for anyone else? It was enough for them!

Wasn’t it?

“Hey,” Derek said, giving him a squeeze. “What’s up?”

“We’re not dating, are we?” Stiles blurted out, because maybe everyone else was right and he had just missed the memo. That thought—that he might’ve misinterpreted everything—was even _more_ uncomfortable, making his heart race and his palms sweat.

But Derek just shook his head. He didn’t seem offended or even confused by the question. If Stiles wasn’t very much mistaken, he actually looked a little relieved. “Of course not,” he said. “I think we would know.”

Stiles nearly went boneless with relief. His forehead thunked against Derek’s chest and Derek huffed out a laugh.

“Is that what’s got you so tied up in knots?” he asked. “You weren’t sure where we stood with each other?”

“No, I was! Well, I thought was,” Stiles amended, muffled into Derek’s shirt. “I was pretty sure until everyone else started voicing their opinions and apparently literally all of them think we’re dating.”

“Ah.”

Stiles removed himself from Derek’s chest, leaning his shoulder against the back of the couch instead. Derek let him go easily, twisting to mirror the stance.

“Does it bother you?” Stiles asked. “When people assume we’re dating when we’re not?”

Derek shrugged. “Not really. They can think whatever they want.”

For a second, Stiles allowed himself to envy Derek for that. He wished he could just not care, but every false assumption knocked him a little bit more off-kilter. It didn’t help that the assumptions all implied _more,_ or _better,_ like what they had didn’t count. Like it wasn’t worth being considered “a thing” at all if it wasn’t romantic, so if they had “a thing” then clearly it _was_ romantic.

“And does it…” Stiles picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Does it bother you that we’re not? Dating, I mean.” It certainly seemed to bother everyone else.

Derek smiled a bit. “No, Stiles, it doesn’t. I like what we have.”

“I do too,” Stiles told him. “I like it a lot. Everyone else just seems to think it’s something it’s not, or that it _should_ be.”

“It is what it is,” Derek said. “And anyone who says otherwise can go fuck themselves.”

Stiles was startled into a laugh. “No! I don’t think I’d go quite _that_ far. They’re not, like, being dicks about it on purpose or anything. They just…don’t get it.”

Derek reached out to take Stiles’ hand, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles around Stiles’ palm. “They will eventually. We’ll just have to beat them over the head with it a little bit.”

“Aw, you’d beat up on our friends over this?” Stiles cooed. “That’s sweet.”

Derek didn’t rise to the bait. He just said, “Yeah, I would. Because it bothers you. And I don’t like seeing you upset.”

The last of the squirmy gut feeling faded away in a wash of warmth and affection. “You know, I do love you,” Stiles declared. “Not, like…like _that._ But. I do.”

Derek squeezed his hand. “I love you not like that too,” he said, with only the tiniest hint of amusement in his tone. “Regardless of how anyone else interprets it.”

It was a good thing that Derek chose that moment to settle back into his end of the couch and turn on the TV because Stiles’ throat was a little too tight for his up-welling of gratitude to make it into words. He just let Derek tug him close again, settling into a good, solid cuddle. They bickered about what show to watch—Stiles won—and about which car they were going to take to Lydia’s party—Derek won—and what they were going to have for dinner—they compromised on pizza that Stiles paid for because he was eating Derek out of house and home most days—and it was good.

So maybe they were a little bit of a thing. And just because it wasn’t the kind of thing most people thought it was, that didn’t mean that it wasn’t the best thing Stiles had going for him.

Whatever it was, he wouldn’t trade their thing for the world.

**Author's Note:**

> [also rebloggable on tumblr!](http://clotpolesonly.tumblr.com/post/182916322711/this-or-that-but-always-mine)


End file.
